


S11E15 - Oh, Death

by awed_frog



Series: Supernatural - Season 11 [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels are Dicks, Canon Compliant, Castiel's True Form, Character Death, M/M, Messy, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:18:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You will show me proper respect, worship and gratitude, Righteous Man.</em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>Or what?</em> thinks Dean, squaring his jaw.</p><p>“Or I will make you,” says Cas, and his eyes flash blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	S11E15 - Oh, Death

**Author's Note:**

> So, first I thought I’d be able to finish this fic during the hellatus; then I decided I was not going to watch _Supernatural_ until I had finished writing this fic, because I didn’t want to be influenced by the events of the actual season 11 and put at risk my artistic consistency or some shit; and finally I realized I’m not writing _The Brothers Karamazov_ but a fanfic for a show I adore, so I gave up and watched episode 1.  
>  Did you guys like it?  
> For my part, the only thing I will say about it is - it’s sad that after everything we’ve been through, I feel grateful and relieved because Dean even tried to apologize to Cas, because he was (probably) worried about Cas. At this point, it should be obvious that Cas is Dean's first priority. It's good to have some subtext, but also, well. And I’m tired to see Cas out of options and hurt - my Cas will forever be the BAMF soldier of the Lord he used to be. Enough with the baggy trenchcoat and the dad haircut and making the most of a bad situation. Bloody fight back, Cas!

_When God is gone and the Devil takes hold,  
who will have mercy on your soul_

 

When Dean opens his eyes, he is immediately and fully awake. In fact, he feels awesome. The last time he slept this soundly must have been - he frowns. He can’t remember, actually.

He shrugs slightly, stands up. All the aches in his body seem to have disappeared. He remembers drinking, like, a lot, before falling asleep, but he doesn’t have a hangover. Not even a headache. 

And also: his ribs are fine.

Dean frowns again, then passes his hands on his face: there are no scabs under his fingers. The skin is intact.

_What the hell?_

He turns around, but his first impression was correct: he’s alone in the room. The bed where Gabriel slept is in disarray, sheets and empty bottles everywhere, but there’s no trace of the (former) archangel. Dean thinks he remembers Sam walking in, at some point, but he’s not sure.

And as he thinks about Sam and the mess his little brother is in, and then, inevitably, to Cas, and whatever Cas is doing (is Cas even alive?), Dean realizes that he’s not experiencing a simple physical well being. He actually feels fine. Or, rather, he feels normal. There is a kind of _grin and growl_ attitude inside him now. As he steps into the corridor, he feels like he’s ready to take on whatever will be foolish enough to stand in his way.

Which, as it turns out, is bloody Gabriel, wild-eyed and covered in flour from head to toe.

“What the hell?” asks Dean, before the guy can even speak, and Gabriel frowns in confusion before looking down at himself and shrugging.

“Don’t mind that, it’s just - the urge to kill him is gone, Dean.”

“Okay. Congratulations?”

Dean tries to shoulder past Gabriel, because there is no way he’s going to talk about Cas - Cas who killed the best and noblest of archangels, his own brother, for Dean. Cas who got hurt for him (bloody again). So Gabriel’s compulsion to get revenge is gone, good for him. What it probably means is that he’ll want his powers back, and Dean needs to sleep on that.

Gabriel snorts in annoyance and blocks Dean’s way.

“Don’t you _get_ it? It means he’s been forgiven.”

Dean looks at up at the ceiling in exasperation. Judging by the regard in which Gabriel holds Dean’s intelligence, you’d think he’d make himself clearer when he’s making his grand pronouncements, but no. It’s like he enjoys having Dean follow him around and stutter inane questions at him. 

Which, well, can’t be helped, because Dean really, really needs to know what’s going with Cas.

“Forgiven?” he says, trying for nonchalant and landing on a Neil Armstrong's mother level of anxious. “So he’s alive?”

“I don’t know. Could be one or the other,” says Gabriel, and this time, when Dean pushes against him, he gives way.

Dean can hear Gabriel’s soft steps behind him as he marches on to the kitchen, and he tries, very hard, to focus on the sound, to frown at the peeling wallpaper (his hands are itching to fix this place, it would look so nice with a bit of -), to wonder at the small horde of giggling children (also covered in flour) appearing in front of him like a vision of domesticity and peace and disappearing just as quickly.

But, of course, he fails.

 _Could be one or the other_ \- right there, in these words, Dean has heard it once again - the clean, dreadful sound of Michael’s sword piercing Cas’ body. For one awful instant, he’s seen the blade again, a bright, shiny thing covered in blue blood, hovering in front of his face; has seen the expression on Cas’ face in that squalid room ( _I know I’m dying, Dean_ ).

With a few choice curses, he turns a corner and walks into the kitchen and has to stop in his tracks when he understands what he’s looking at.

Donna is pouring over a huge map, a dozen pins between her lips and a look of determination on her face; Jody is slumping in the chair next to her and is pressing a bloody cloth against her neck; and Sam (well: Crowley) is talking gibberish into a silver bowl. 

Dean wishes he could even _wonder_ about this, wishes he could be the kind of person who would need some answers and a quarter of gin before accepting the truth of the scene in front of him - but Dean isn’t. He doesn’t have that luxury. Instead, everything is immediately, brutally clear. Crowley, bloody _Crowley_ , to whom they have given protection and sanctuary, has somehow talked the others into allowing him to phone Hell. As if they haven’t enough problems already.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Dean! Are you -”

“Tracking Metatron,” says Crowley, switching to English, his cultured vowels completely unnatural on Sam’s lips. “I’m consulting with my subordinates,” he adds, as if he's some bank manager on a conference call and not a bloody demon talking into a bloody bowl of bloody _blood_.

“Right,” says Dean, and now he’s remembered something else, now he’s really, really fucking angry, “and doesn’t it take a human life to do that? I hope you have a plan, because if Jody _dies_ over this -”

Dean glances at the two women, and sees they have gone pale - so Crowley hasn’t bothered to tell them, has he - fucking _demons_ -

“Of course I have a plan. You know I like Jody,” says Crowley airily, and he turns back to the bowl.

Dean walks forward and in one smooth movement he trips Crowley out of the chair (tries not to feel guilty when Sam’s skull cracks on the tiles), sits right on top of him. Crowley tries to fight back, but Dean has wrestled with his brother long enough to know how to win. Growling, he moves his left knee until it’s pressing over Sam’s ribs - there is a fracture there which never healed right, and Dean pushes against it, straining the bone almost to breaking point - Crowley hisses with pain and stops fighting.

“Not always fun to possess humans, is it? Weak, pathetic things, right? Now hang the fuck up.”

“She won’t die.”

“You need a human life to talk to your minions. I’ve cleaned after you enough times to know that. Hang up, Crowley.”

“She - won’t - die,” says Crowley again, and brings up one of Sam’s freakishly big hand against Dean’s knee, trying to get it off his chest. Dean grabs his wrist and bangs it down on the floor. Hard.

“My liege?” says a woman’s voice from behind them, and Dean growls again.

“And how do we even know what you’ve been saying to them? Have you told them where the house is?”

“God, you are even stupider than you look - what is it, Bela?”

“Bela?” asks Dean, and is momentarily nonplussed.

Crowley grins and brings his head up, fast and vicious, against Dean’s forehead. Dean is thrown back, loosens his grips on Crowley’s wrists, and Crowley uses Sam’s greater height and weight to his advantage, turning around so that Dean is trapped under him.

“Bela Talbot, yes,” he grins, his face very close to Dean’s. “My new Kansas commander and an old friend of yours. Have I never mentioned her before? Must have slipped my mind.”

Dean glares at him and tries to get free, but Sam’s body is just too heavy. Fucking Sam and his fucking weightlifting obsession, Dean thinks, somehow illogically, forgetting for a split second that the actual Sam is on his side, which means his 200 pounds of muscles are (under normal circumstances) a good thing.

Crowley adjusts himself more comfortably over Dean, and when he sees Donna is now standing over them, a hand over the cock of her gun, he smiles up at her, shakes his head and lowers an arm over Dean’s throat.

“Speak to me, love.”

“Someone matching Metatron’s description has been seen yesterday in Lebanon, sir.”

“Fuck me,” says Crowley, looking down at him again, and Dean sees his own expression of shock mirrored on Sam’s face. “Is the stupid twat actually headed for your place?”

“The Stynes broke the defensive spells on the door,” mutters Dean, trying - and failing - to dislodge Crowley’s arm from his throat. “If he gets in -”

“That would be a bugger. Bela, sweetheart, who is watching the Men of Letters bunker?”

“Kirill Semyonich, sir.”

Dean is still watching Crowley’s face, and when he sees the hint of displeasure he tries to get free again, hoping to catch the demon as he’s distracted, but the bastard doesn’t let go.

“Who assigned that idiot to - never mind. Just send Nikolai after him. In fact, go yourself. If Metatron shows up, get him before he enters the bloody place.”

“We will, sir.”

“Watch out,” calls out Dean, before he can help himself. “He’s doesn’t look like much, but he’s dangerous.”

There is a second of silence, and then Jody’s blood bubbles so hard in the silver bowl that a few drops of it fly over the metal edge and trickle down on the table.

“Is that - is that Dean Winchester?”

“Just be careful, that’s all,” Dean answers, and then Crowley barks a final order in a language of sharp angles and consonants and Bela’s voice disappears.

“If you’ve been hurting her -” starts Dean, and Crowley sits up, lets go of Dean’s wrists.

“Yes, I know the drill, thank you. What is with you Winchesters and your hero complex? And why do you insist in slandering me, Dean? I am not the bad guy here. In fact, I haven’t been the bad guy for a while,” he insists, almost dripping with honesty, as Dean rolls his eyes. “Bela Talbot _chose_ to come to Hell, and she found it a most congenial environment for her particular skills. And as for this phone call, I paid for it myself. Jody will not suffer any permanent damage.”

Dean comes up on his elbows then - his eyes follow Crowley’s gesture, and he notices for the first time that Sam’s shirt is bloodied. 

“Son of a -” he starts, but then Crowley lifts his shirt up, and -

There is a deep gash on the left side on Sam’s chest, but the blood oozing from it is black, not red.

“Mine,” says Crowley, unnecessarily. “Not Sam’s. We good?”

Before Dean can even nod, there is a deafening noise and the house shakes around them. Crowley falls on top of him, startled by what seems to be a minor earthquake - Dean gets a mouthful of Sam’s hair, can taste Sam’s girly shampoo on his tongue (and dirt, and mud), spits out a pine needle - hears, from very far away, Jody’s voice (‘Get the kids!’) - sees a glimpse of Donna as she picks herself off the floor and runs out of the room -

\- and then there is a light so bright Dean can’t see anything anymore - Crowley is yelling in pain, and Dean rolls out from under him on instinct, presses his hands on his brother’s eyes, trying to shield him - turns around -

He sees Raguel first. He always knew the bastard was powerful, but the weight of his presence is now pressing so hard on them (on Crowley, gasping in Dean’s arms; on Jody, taking deep, shaky breaths, her head bowed, her body half off the chair) Dean can feel his eyes water from it. Gritting his teeth against it, Dean tries to see past the light - tries to defuse the awe-inspiring, glittering creature who just materialized in their kitchen into Bobby’s body (seemingly twelve feet tall, and a barely there impression of gigantic wings filling up the room) - and just as he manages to do that, in the precise instant the light dims enough for Dean to be able to perceive Bobby’s familiar, scruffy profile, another figure takes a step forward and Dean’s heart jolts inside his chest.

 _Cas_ is looking straight at him, his gaze severe, almost solemn. He’s wearing some kind of douchey suit which is nothing like the one in the Impala’s trunk - a functional thing Dean picked up in Walmart, and something he hates wearing, anyway - no, this suit probably cost more than Jimmy Novak’s fucking _house_ \- not that the angel paid for it, because it’s surely an illusion, as is the rest of it - as is Cas’ presence in this room, because Cas is - because isn’t Cas - and yet Dean refuses to breathe in and accept the huge wave of love and relief threatening to crash down over him, because there is something else which bothers him, something he can’t put his finger on - he glances up, see the hilt of a fiery sword behind Cas’ left shoulder - an archangel’s sword - and then - 

“Enough,” Cas says, and the light shimmers down at once.

Raguel snaps his fingers, and every candle in the place lights up instead. Dean remains frozen where he is, can’t stop staring at Cas, because this new, softer light is bringing some pink to his cheeks, it’s making it look like Cas is actually alive - like this is the Cas who can blush and smile and ask bizarre questions about lipstick.

But then Cas starts walking towards Dean, and the illusion shatters. This is not Cas’ familiar, graceful gait; and it’s not how Cas used to move in the very beginning, when he would still catch himself from time to time because boy, human bodies are just not big enough to contain angelic Grace. No, this is how Raphael and Michael and Lucifer move. As if they are in complete control, as if they’re moving a puppet around and they’re following a bloody instruction manual - controlled, precise gestures completely devoid of personality.

“Cas?” asks Dean, but, as Cas steps closer, he realizes that the angel is not, in fact, walking towards him, but towards Gabriel - Gabriel, who’s apparently taken a time-out from the whole phone call business by leaning against the wall behind Dean and Crowley.

Dean turns to look at the guy as Cas moves past him (his familiar windswept hair the only thing setting him apart from dozens of others robotic, ordinary angels Dean has had to deal with) and realizes for the first time how much shorter Gabriel is compared to Cas. Without his powers and his fiery sword, Gabriel is just a man, a slender, ordinary man dressed in casual clothes, his blondish hair and red t-shirt still covered in flour, his eyes glittering dangerously.

“Brother,” says Cas, in his usual serious, gravelly voice (and yet there is no love there, no recognition).

“Brother,” Gabriel replies, and then, a bit hesitantly, he offers his hand to Cas.

“You would not kill me,” says Cas, and Dean sees his head tilt down, staring at Gabriel’s open hand.

“No.”

“Even knowing I did kill Michael - your lord and commander.”

Dean expects Gabriel to refute this - since when is that dick anyone’s commander - he’s been stuck in the Cage for longer than Gabriel has been dead, and, even before that, Gabriel would not recognize his authority - escaped to the ends of the earth and lived as a horse-fucking ice giant rather than recognizing his brother’s authority, in fact - and yet - yet Gabriel does not refute this.

“I would not kill you,” he says instead, still looking up at Cas, an unreadable expression on his thin face.

Cas remains still for another second, and then he takes Gabriel hand. There is barely the time for an inkling of relief and affection to blossom in Gabriel’s eyes before Dean sees a glint of silver appearing in Cas’ left hand - and next, Cas pulls Gabriel to him and plunges his angel blade straight through Gabriel’s heart. Gabriel falls against Cas, who catches him easily. 

The whole thing is over before Dean can blink. Gabriel chokes - red blood, human blood, trickles out of his mouth - and then his honey stare becomes fixed and absent.

“No,” whispers Dean, “No, you _can’t_ -”

Crowley tries to keep him down, but Dean pushes himself to his feet, takes a step towards Cas -

“He loved you,” he says, to Cas’ back. “He _loved_ you. You hurt his brother, and yet he - he became _human_ for you. So he wouldn't hurt you. He would have done _anything_ for you,” he adds, and this is not, perhaps, completely true, but still something Dean cannot help but say.

Cas doesn’t turn around. His head is bowed in the crook of Gabriel’s shoulder, and he’s still supporting his brother’s dead body, his arms embracing Gabriel in a twisted parody of love and repentance.

“In order to obtain or create something, something of equal value must be lost or destroyed,” he says, as if that explained anything, and then he brings his hand up, passes his thumb on Gabriel’s forehead.

“ _Vives_ ,” he says, and just as Gabriel takes a deep breath, Dean hears Jesse scream from two floors above.

“What the _hell_ -”

Instinctively, he looks down at Crowley, because he doesn’t know what to do, and Sam is smart, way smarter than Dean will ever be, and surely he will know what should be done here - run upstairs and check on the kid, or - but how can he leave Jody and Sam wit the two angels - Dean will never, _ever_ trust them - and he physically can’t step away from Cas, not now he’s back, even if Cas is - but then, as he stares at Sam’s blank face, hoping for help, or advice, or anything, Dean remembers this is Crowley, and that Crowley is trapped in Sam’s body and is surrounded by archangels - so forget Jesse, they will all die here -

“Everything is fine, Dean. Nobody needs to die,” says Cas, and as he takes a step back from his brother, Dean sees it happening - sees a light around Gabriel, something which starts out white and then becomes gold and flames - Gabriel’s eyes become blue, then too bright to look at - a sword appears across his back, the fiery hilt glowing behind his shoulder - and then he makes a sound, like the roar of a lion freed from his cage, and two huge white wings explode on either side of him.

“Great. More archangels,” mutters Dean, trying to mask the flood of awe and panic beating against his ribcage.

“Three archangels,” says Cas, and now he turns towards Dean, turning his back on the fire and Grace that is Gabriel. “”We are almost ready.”

“Ready for what?”

Cas doesn’t answer, just keep looking at Dean, and Dean’s eyes hesitate, inevitably, between his blue eyes and his slightly chapped lips - he wants, more than anything, to just hug Cas, to wrap his arms around Cas and hold on for as long as possible. He doesn’t give a damn that Crowley and Jody and fucking Raguel are there. He’s past caring.

He takes a step forward without really realizing what he’s doing, and suddenly Cas’ voice is inside his head, a bit too loud at first, as if Cas has to remember how this is done, and then low enough to resonate in every inch of Dean’s body.

_There are things in your past, Dean Winchester, which trick you into believing we know each other._

Dean closes his hands into fists, refuses to lower his eyes.

_We do not._

Dean keeps staring at Cas - impeccable clothes, perfectly shaved jaw, a fucking grey tie which is probably silk or some shit - and he tries to block his words out.

_You will show me proper respect, worship and gratitude, Righteous Man._

_Or what?_ thinks Dean, squaring his jaw.

“Or I will make you,” says Cas, and his eyes flash blue. 

Dean is this close to launch himself at Cas when he feels someone grabs his ankle. He looks down, sees Crowley shaking his head.

_Fucking Hell._

“Then you’d better earn it,” he forces out instead. “My respect, and the rest of it.”

Cas tilts his head to the right, just a fraction, as if staring into Dean’s soul, and then he walks past him again, back towards Raguel. 

Dean looks at the two of them for a second - two of the people he loves most in this world, both lost to him - feels the beginning of the familiar _What the fuck have I ever done to deserve this_ rage in his stomach - and then he hears a noise behind him and whips around.

Gabriel is pressing his fingers on Jody forehead, and before she can bat it away, there is a spark of golden light and Jody gasps. The bloodied cloth falls to the floor, and she brings her hand up against her neck. The wound there has disappeared. Gabriel winks at her, then his eyes lock with Dean’s and his lips curve in a small Just go with it smile. Before Dean can decide what his first question should even be, Gabriel has walked past him and has gone to stand next to his brothers. They both take a step back to include him in the wordless conversation as if nothing has happened - as if Cas has not just plunged a twelve-inches blade into Gabriel’s chest; as if Cas has not just killed him (and, admittedly, brought him back to life).

_Bloody angels._

“What should we do?” whispers Jody, and Dean reaches back, without looking away from the creepy family reunion in front of him, and seizes her hand.

“Get upstairs,” he says, fully realizing that this will not put her out of harm’s way. “Check on the others, see if Jesse is okay.”

She squeezes his hand, then lets go. Dean hears her inching towards the door, and then the slight creak of the wooden floor of the hallway. The angels do not take any notice of it. 

“Any other brilliant ideas?” asks Crowley, and Dean glances at him.

Crowley has gotten to his feet, but he still looks ashen, almost sick.

“We can’t trust them -” he says, and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“You don’t say.”

“- but we have no choice.”

“Squirrel, you break my heart. Well, good luck with your newfound compliance for rules - I am going to slither out of here before they notice the King of Hell is inside your brother.”

“Right, because you think they don’t know?”

“Look at them,” says Crowley, and Dean glances at the little group again. “Angels, like demons, are immortal; but angels, unlike demons, have never been human. It always takes them a while to adjust to our reality. I doubt they even know where they are.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m serious. Your boyfriend can find you on instinct, but that doesn’t mean - ouch!”

Dean hasn’t even needed to think about it; his fist has collided with Crowley’s jaw before he’s even decided if this is a good idea or not.

“You do not - don’t _ever_ -”

Dean has never been good at recognizing his own emotions, but for bloody once, he knows perfectly well why he can’t bear Crowley to finish his sentence - why he will beat him into silence if it’s bloody necessary to do so - because Cas will not - Cas is no longer -

“So this is what it’s got your knickers in a twist,” says Crowley, passing his fingers on his face with a frown. “So, you can’t tell? Really?”

“Tell what?”

Sam’s stupid face has opened the skin on Dean’s knuckles, and Dean wishes it would sting even more, because, fuck it - fuck all of it -

“He’s still your age, your moron.”

“My _age_?”

“Castiel is still measuring time in accordance with your rules, Dean. He’s still understanding this world through your eyes. It’s not because he’s wearing some decent clothes that he doesn’t -”

Crowley stops talking.

“I will not be the one to say this,” he adds. “I am the fucking King of Hell, not a _Dear Deirdre_ column.”

Dean looks for another second at Sam’s face - tries to see his brother past Crowley’s consciousness - and he knows perfectly well his brother is still in there somewhere, but he can’t feel him, can’t see past Crowley, and he may have complicated feelings for the guy, but he’s not ready to trust him, not on this, because he knows, he bloody _knows_ \- he’s seen it in Cas’ eyes, in his sharp syllables ( _We do not_ ) - this will be the time Cas will not come back to him. This will be the mind-control Cas will not be able to shake off, because it’s not mind-control at all, is it? This is Cas as he should have been from the beginning. Even more powerful, even more just and saintly. This is the dreadful force who’d dragged him out of Hell, the thing which had burned out Pamela’s eyes, which had made that barn shake, almost collapse on top of him and Bobby. This is an angel sure of his mission and faithful to his brothers; what Cas should have been all along, what Cas actually _was_ before Dean has taken him apart and ruined him. So Crowley can say what he wants, Dean will not believe - _cannot_ believe -

Dean clenches his jaw. He turns towards the angels again, and, again, is struck by the impression that something is wrong. He unfocuses his eyes slightly - there is Raguel, with his stupid eyes, and Gabriel, looking - really, no surprises here, the guy is just _vain_ \- majestic as fuck with his golden halo and his white wings - and next to them is Cas, his blue flames now suffocated by a heavy silver armour - Dean frowns at it, because it looks all kind of wrong - and then, just as he’s about to turn away, he realizes what is really bothering him: Cas’ wings are still burned to the bone.

“Shouldn’t an archangel,” he starts, thinking about that other time Cas had been brought back to life - remembering how he’d knelt in the dry grass, how he’d felt a gentle touch on his forehead, had looked up to see Cas, newly made and pristine, perfectly healthy -

Before he can finish the thought, the house shakes again, and this time it’s a violent, vicious thing - Dean falls to his knees as the furniture around him is overturned - there is the noise of shattering china - a curtain goes up in flames - Dean feels a hand close around his wrist, allows himself to be dragged under the sturdy kitchen table, and when he gets to his knees again he finds himself almost nose to nose with Sam, whose face has lost the little colour it had.

“Lucifer is here,” Sam whispers, and this is really Sam, no doubts about it, and there is such anguish in his voice Dean grabs him and presses his hand on the back of his brother’s head.

“He will _not_ get you. I will _not_ let him get you,” he growls, and he knows from the tightening of Sam’s arms around him that his brother understands Dean means it - that Dean will fucking _die_ before allowing that motherfucking creep to touch Sam - and also that he understands there is nothing Dean can do to stop the Devil; that they can just wait; that all they have, in the end, is each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Episode song courtesy of the awesome Season 11 promo!
> 
> Kirill Semyonich and Nikolai are characters from one of my favourite movies, Cronenberg’s _Eastern Promises_.
> 
> “In order to obtain or create something, something of equal value must be lost or destroyed.” - Full Metal Alchemist


End file.
